


in this together

by M0stlyVoid



Series: Kinktober 2020 [30]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Daddy Kink, Established Relationship, Head Auror Harry Potter, Hit-Wizard Draco Malfoy, Kink Negotiation, M/M, No ageplay, POV Draco Malfoy, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:01:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27275350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M0stlyVoid/pseuds/M0stlyVoid
Summary: Harry's reforming the DMLE in his position as the youngest Head Auror in history. He takes the weight of the world on his shoulders every day and does it gladly.Draco's the only one he can trust to lift that burden for him.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: Kinktober 2020 [30]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1948741
Comments: 18
Kudos: 211





	in this together

**Author's Note:**

> the october 30 prompt for kinktober 2020 is— _daddy kink_.

By the time Harry sends Draco the note, he’s been waiting for it for almost a week.

They don’t do this very much. Harry would probably like to pretend it’s random, but Draco knows better. For the last five years, twice a year—once as spring warms into summer, once after the autumn chill has fully set in—Harry’s let Draco know it’s time, and he needs it again.

If it makes Harry more comfortable to pretend it doesn’t have anything to do with the calendar, well, this is all about what Harry needs, so Draco is more than happy to accommodate. _He_ doesn’t ignore the dates, though.

Draco rolls his shoulders a bit, working out the twinges from the latest assignment. The potioneer that had been assigned to the Hitwizard department once it was clear his strength and magical prowess far outweighed the Aurors’ capabilities (and hadn’t _that_ been a grudging memo from the Head Auror; Harry’s always loath to admit any flaws among his staff, but at least he knows when their limits have been reached, unlike his predecessor) had taken Draco and his partner by surprise with the amount of pre-set traps he’d had ready for them, and Draco thinks he pulled a muscle in his back.

He strokes the words on the parchment, then sends off a request for a muscle-relaxant potion. Normally he doesn’t take them, preferring to allow his body to heal and recuperate naturally, but Harry needs him, and he needs to be at top form.

He downs the potion, meditates as it burns through the fibres in his muscles, knitting them back together with a rapidity that makes him grit his teeth even through his cogitation, then checks in with his supervisor to check out for the day. He’d done good work that morning, and he has some preparations to set.

* * *

By the time Harry steps through the Floo, feet dragging and dark circles pronounced, Draco’s sitting on the couch in his most expensive pair of trousers and his tightest shirt, the navy one Harry likes best. He’s got a glass of wine on the table in front of him for effect, but he hasn’t had a sip—he needs to be sober for this.

As Harry straightens automatically upon seeing him, Draco makes a point of checking his large silver wristwatch. “And what time do you call this?” he asks sternly, folding his arms over his chest. On a normal day, he’d have stopped to bring Harry home with him at a slightly more reasonable hour, and they’d have gone out to dinner, and then to bed early, but that’s not what Harry needs today, so even though Draco aches to bundle his husband into his arms and not let him go until he’s sobbed out the cares the world keeps laying on his shoulders, he lets his face fall into the mask he’d perfected as a boy.

Harry tugs off his jacket and lets it fall to the ground. Draco narrows his eyes. It doesn’t always go like this; sometimes, Harry falls right into character, and Draco has them both cleaned up and asleep within an hour.

Sometimes, though, Harry takes a little… _persuasion_. Draco’s grateful he already checked that he had no morning responsibilities tomorrow outside of finishing up his reports from today’s hit. “Are you going to pick that up?”

“No,” Harry mutters petulantly, frowning at the ground. “And I call this time _when I got done with work_.”

“Such _cheek_ today,” Draco breathes, and he unfolds himself from the couch and has Harry pressed face-first into the wall before Harry has time to put up any sort of defense.

Not that he would.

“I believe we’ve discussed how you’re supposed to address me,” Draco says lowly into Harry’s ear, shoving him further against the wall and biting down on his neck when Harry whimpers at the crush of his face into the wood. “Don’t you remember? You’ll keep a _civil tongue_ in your head when you’re speaking with me, or you’ll regret it.”

“Sorry,” Harry squeaks, and Draco allows himself a private smile. Not nearly as much effort to get him to capitulate as Draco had feared, then. “I’m sorry, I swear I didn’t mean—”

“You _did_ mean, though,” Draco says conversationally, plucking Harry’s shirt out of his trousers and snaking his hand up Harry’s chest. “And you most certainly _will_ be sorry.” He pinches Harry’s nipple _hard,_ much harder than they normally do during sex, and Harry cries out in pain and tries to twist away, but Draco’s got him pinned to the wall; there’s nowhere for him to go, and Draco can _feel_ the truth of that settle into Harry, in the way his body tenses, then relaxes, sagging forward and letting Draco keep him up.

Letting Draco stand between him and the world.

He abuses Harry’s nipples until Harry’s voice is hoarse from crying out and chanting apologies. There have been nights where this was enough, this was all it took to get the word out and send Harry to a sweet, peaceful sleep, but it’s not going to be tonight, so Draco steps back and rips Harry’s shirt apart from the collar, leaving Harry slumping forward into the wall and shivering at the sudden chill.

Draco tosses the rent shirt to the side—Harry will spell it back together in the morning, probably with plenty of grumbling, Draco knows it’s one of his favorites—then sits back down on the couch, back straight, knees just a few inches apart, hands calmly resting at his sides.

Then he waits. Harry needs to come to him. He’ll never manhandle Harry into this position; won’t ever _make_ him agree to this, even as part of the game. Harry has to wrestle with himself and _admit_ he needs this and take that final step on his own before Draco takes over. That’s been one of his rules from day one.

He sits calmly, watching as Harry shifts from foot to foot and hunches his shoulders. Draco can _feel_ the resentment steaming off him, the snarling, angry part of Harry that doesn’t _want_ to make decisions, doesn’t _want_ to have to choose affecting the very smell of his magic.

Draco retreats back into his meditation when this happens, so he’s not sure exactly how much time passes before he’s blinking back to himself at the tug of Harry’s hand on his trouser leg.

Harry is kneeling at his feet, head bowed, shoulders up to his ears. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, almost too quietly to be heard.

“I know,” Draco says gently, resting his hand on the back of Harry’s neck and squeezing lightly. “I know you are. But you know I can’t allow that sort of attitude to just go by unpunished. Right?”

“I know,” Harry replies, voice small.

Draco strokes over his hair in approval, and Harry shivers. “Good. Now. You were home late, and you wouldn’t pick up after yourself, and then you were rude to me. How many do you think that deserves?”

Harry’s quiet for a minute, and Draco knows exactly what he’s thinking—if he says too few, Draco will scold him and add more as a punishment, but if he says too _many_ in hopes Draco will assure him he’s overcompensating, Draco will happily use that number.

It’s a calculation Harry tries to get right every time. He never has. He doesn’t want to, so Draco won’t let him.

“...fifteen?” he finally ventures, looking up through his lashes. “Five for each?”

Draco allows himself to laugh at that. “Oh, Harry,” he says fondly, tugging at the curls at the back of Harry’s neck. “Absolutely _not_. That was an excellent try, though.” In truth, if this were up to him, Draco probably would have offered fifteen; the fact that Harry’s looking up at him hopefully means he’s lowballing, though, so Draco will add on. “We’ll start with twenty-five, and see how you’re doing after that.”

Harry breathes harshly for a moment, then looks down at the floor again. “Yes,” he whispers, and his shoulders finally relax, the muscles in his back unbunching under Draco’s approving eye. “Whatever you think is best.”

“That’s right,” Draco says approvingly, pulling his hand back and spreading his legs a bit further. “Now. You know what you should be doing. _Don’t_ make me wait.”

Harry scrambles to his feet and strips off his trousers and pants, taking a moment to fold them carefully and set them aside. His socks are folded over each other and placed on top, and his glasses, arms carefully bent back into place, on top of those.

“Good,” Draco murmurs, shifting a bit as he watches Harry move about the room and his cock hardens in his trousers. He doesn’t have pants on underneath, and he knows by the end of this there will be a wet spot visible, and he daydreams a little about Harry sucking him off through the fabric.

Finally, Harry’s tidied up his coat and the shreds of his shirt to Draco’s satisfaction and is crawling onto the couch and over his lap. He drapes himself over Draco’s leg, his hard cock between Draco’s thighs, legs bent enough so his arse is angled up. He pulls a pillow closer to himself and rests his head on it, turning his cheek so he’s facing the back of the couch (and Draco; Draco always insists on seeing his face for this), with his arms folded under the cushion.

Draco brings his legs together, trapping Harry’s cock between his thighs and rubbing gently. He knows just how soft these trousers are—he’d certainly paid enough for it—but on Harry’s hard, sensitive cock the tiniest breaks in the threading will scrape in a maddeningly painful, arousing way. Harry shivers, but stills almost immediately, and Draco kisses one of his cheeks in reward.

“Can you count?” Draco asks softly, rubbing his left hand over Harry’s arse. “You can answer.”

“Yes, please,” Harry says, and Draco glances down, smiling a bit at how dark his eyes already are.

“Good. We’ll see how you’re doing after twenty-five, then; if you’ve learned your lesson or not.” And with no further warning, Draco brings his hand down hard over the back of Harry’s thigh.

“One!” Harry yelps out, jumping forward at the blow. His cock rubs against Draco’s trousers, and Draco can feel dampness already soaking through the material.

He rubs over the reddened skin, then aims a slap at the meat of Harry’s arse. “Two!” Another in the same spot, but on the other cheek. “Three,” a moan that time, and Draco’s own cock twitches, but he puts it from his mind.

They continue on like that, Harry perfectly in place except for involuntary twitches when one of Draco’s strikes is particularly hard, or in a sensitive spot, and even when he’s trembling and covered in goosebumps he never misses a count.

It’s on strike fifteen that he breaks and starts to cry. Strike twenty has him mewling into the pillow when Draco takes a break to shake his hand out.

“Twenty-four,” Harry gasps out, and just as Draco’s about to deliver the final hit, mind already working ahead to how to introduce adding _more_ when Harry’s behaved so perfectly, he adds, “Daddy, please…”

And that’s it. Draco hits him once more, where his arse meets his leg, a spot Harry’s particularly sensitive, and as soon as Harry chokes out “Twenty-five, please, please, _Daddy,_ ” Draco pulls him upright, tugging and rearranging him until Harry’s straddling his lap, thighs on either side of Draco’s hips.

He winds his arms around Harry’s waist and tucks Harry’s head into his neck, rocking them slowly and whispering “it’s alright, you did so well, I love you” in a repeating mantra as Harry cries and cries, his whole body shaking with the grief he can’t let out during the day.

After a while, Harry’s cried himself out, and when he pulls himself back, his eyes are red-rimmed and swollen, but clear and shining for the first time in almost a month. “Draco,” he whispers, leaning down and kissing him hard.

They’d both softened a bit, but Harry’s kisses are fierce and all-consuming, and his hands are hot and possessive, and it’s not long before he’s rubbing himself against Draco’s stomach, and Draco himself is leaking through his trousers, just like he knew he would.

Harry leans back and gasps for air, then glances down and smirks at the wet spot on Draco’s fine grey trousers. “Oh,” he says casually, as if he’s not naked in Draco’s lap, “did you need help with that?” He wiggles forward purposefully, and Draco groans; Harry’s arse and thighs have _got_ to be stinging against the fabric, but he’s so hot and wanton in Draco’s arms that he’s clearly enjoying it.

“I’ll take whatever help you’d like to provide,” Draco manages, closing his eyes tight as Harry slips to his knees on the floor, pushing Draco’s thighs further apart.

Just before Harry lowers his head to the rigid outline of Draco’s cock, he looks up. “Did I… Was I good?” he asks, a thread of uncertainty in his voice.

“Harry, you were _perfect,_ ” Draco says fervently. “You are _always_ perfect.”

Harry’s smile is a little wobbly, but his furrowed brow smooths, and his smirk turns wicked as he takes the head of Draco’s cock in his mouth through the fabric and starts to suck.

**Author's Note:**

> the tumblr post for this fic is [here](https://bonesliketambourines.tumblr.com/post/633542543106326528/kinktober-day-30-in-this-together).


End file.
